All its more ponderous and bulky worth Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth A steady splendor; but at the tip-top, There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop Of light, and that is love: its influence Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense, At which we start and fret; till in the end, Melting into its radiance, we blend, Mingle, and so become a part of it,- Nor with aught else can our souls interknit So wingedly when we combine therewith, Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith, And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. Aye, so delicious is the unsating food, That men, who might have tower'd in the van Of all the congregated world, to fan And winnow from the coming step of time All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, Have been content to let occasion die, Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium. And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, Than speak against this ardent listlessness: For I have ever thought that it might bless The world with benefits unknowingly; As does the nightingale, up-perched high, And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-gray hood. Just so may love, although 'tis understood The mere commingling of passionate breath, Produce more than our searching witnesseth: What I know not: but who, of men, can tell That flowers would bloom, or that green fruits would swell
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, If human souls did never kiss and greet?
"Now, if this earthly love has power to make Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake Ambition from their memories, and brim Their measure of content; what merest whim, Seems all this poor endeavor after fame, To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim A love immortal, an immortal too. Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true, And never can be born of atomies That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies, Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. My sayings will the less obscured seem When I have told thee how my waking sight Has made me scruple whether that same night Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona! Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart,
And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught,
And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell, Far as the slabbed margin of a well, Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet
Edges them round, and they have golden pits: "Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat, When all above was faint with midday heat. And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, I'd bubble up the water through a reed; So reaching back to boyhood: make me ships Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily, When lovelorn hours had left me less a child, I sat contemplating the figures wild
Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through. Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver; So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver The happy chance: so happy, I was fain To follow it upon the open plain, And, therefore, was just going; when, behold! A wonder, fair as any I have told-
The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap Through the cool depth.-It moved as if to flee- I started up, when lo! refreshfully,
There came upon my face, in plenteous showers, Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers Wrapping all objects from my smother'd sight, Bathing my spirit in a new delight.
Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss Alone preserved me from the drear abyss Of death, for the fair form had gone again. Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain
Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth, On the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth, "Tis scared away by slow-returning pleasure. How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure Of weary days, made deeper exquisite By a foreknowledge of unslumbrous night! Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, Than when I wander'd from the poppy-hill : And a whole age of lingering moments crept Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen; Once more been tortured with renewed life. When last the wintry gusts gave over strife With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies Warm and serene, but yet with moisten'd eyes
In pity of the shatter'd infant buds.— That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, My hunting-cap, because I laugh'd and smiled, Chatted with thee, and many days exiled All torment from my breast;-'t was even then, Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den Of helpless discontent,-hurling my lance From place to place, and following at chance, At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck
In the middle of a brook,-whose silver ramble Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble, Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,
Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave The nether sides of mossy stones and rock,- 'Mong which it gurgled blithe adieus, to mock Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?' Said I, low-voiced: Ah, whither! "Tis the grot Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, Doth her resign: and where her tender hands She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands: Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, And babbles thorough silence, till her wits Are gone in tender madness, and anon, Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone Of sadness. O that she would take my vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, And weave them dyingly-send honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying! O charitable echo! hear, and sing This ditty to her!-tell her'-so I stay'd My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, Stood stupefied with my own empty folly, And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came : Endymion! the cave is secreter
Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.' At that oppress'd, I hurried in.-Ah! where Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled? I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed Sorrow, the way to death; but patiently Bear up against it: so farewell, sad sigh; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: no longer strive to find A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind Blustering about my ears: ay, thou shalt see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis naught- And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, Already, a more healthy countenance? By this the sun is setting; we may chance Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car.”
This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand: They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.
O SOVEREIGN power of love! O grief! O balm! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: For others, good or bad, hatred and tears Have become indolent; but touching thine, One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, Struggling, and blood, and shrieks-all dimly fades Into some backward corner of the brain; Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat! Swart planet in the universe of deeds! Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds Along the pebbled shore of memory! Many old rotten-timber'd boats there be Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, And golden-keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry. But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly About the great Athenian admiral's mast? What care, though striding Alexander past The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers The glutted Cyclops, what care!--Juliet leaning Amid her window-flowers,-sighing,-weaning Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, Doth more avail than these: the silver flow Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den, Are things to brood on with more ardency Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully Must such conviction come upon his head, Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, The path of love and poesy. But rest, In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear Love's standard on the battlements of song. So once more days and nights aid me along, Like legion'd soldiers.
Brain-sick shepherd-prince! What promise hast thou faithful guarded since The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows? Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days, Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks; Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes Of the lone wood-cutter; and listening still, Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. Now he is sitting by a shady spring, And elbow-deep with feverous fingering Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose-tree Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight And, in the middle, there is softly pight
A golden butterfly; upon whose wings There must be surely character'd strange things, For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.
Lightly this little herald flew aloft, Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands: Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was; And like a new-born spirit did he pass Through the green evening quiet in the sun, O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer-time away. One track unseams A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew, He sinks adown a solitary glen,
Where there was never sound of mortal men, Saving, perhaps, some snow-like cadences Melting to silence, when upon the breeze Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide, Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd, And, downward, suddenly began to dip, As if, athirst with so much toil, 't would sip The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch Even with mealy gold the waters clear. But, at that very touch, to disappear So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, Endymion sought around, and shook each bed Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest? It was a nymph uprisen to the breast
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. To him her dripping hand she softly kist, And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth! Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, The bitterness of love: too long indeed, Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed Thy soul of care, by Heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze ; Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells, My charming rod, my potent river spells; Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup Meander gave me,-for I bubbled up To fainting creatures in a desert wild. But woe is me, I am but as a child To gladden thee; and all I dare to say, Is, that I pity thee; that on this day
I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far In other regions, past the scanty bar
To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en From every wasting sigh, from every pain, Into the gentle bosom of thy love. Why it is thus, one knows in Heaven above: But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell! I have a ditty for my hollow cell."
Hereat, she vanish'd from Endymion's gaze, Who brooded o'er the water in amaze : The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool, Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down; And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps, Thus breathed he to himself: "Whoso encamps To take a fancied city of delight,
O what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his, After long toil and travelling, to miss The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile! Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil : Another city doth he set about,
Free from the smallest pebble-head of doubt That he will seize on trickling honeycombs: Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams, And onward to another city speeds. But this is human life: the war, the deeds, The disappointment, the anxiety, Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, All human; bearing in themselves this good, That they are still the air, the subtle food, To make us feel existence, and to show How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow, Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, There is no depth to strike in: I can see Naught earthly worth my compassing; so stand Upon a misty, jutting head of land— Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute, When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, I'd rather stand upon this misty peak, With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love, Than be-I care not what. O meekest dove Of Heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair! From thy blue throne, now filling all the air, Glance but one little beam of temper'd light Into my bosom, that the dreadful might And tyranny of love be somewhat scared! Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spared, Would give a pang to jealous misery, Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream.
O be propitious, nor severely deem My madness impious; for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burst-that I Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!
How beautiful thou art! The world how deep! How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins, How lithe! When this thy chariot attains Its airy goal, haply some bower veils
Will be its high remembrancers: who they? The mighty ones who have made eternal day For Greece and England. While astonishment With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went Into a marble gallery, passing through
Those twilight eyes? Those eyes!—my spirit fails- A mimic temple, so complete and true Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air
Will gulf me-help!"-At this, with madden'd stare, And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he stood; Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood, Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone; Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth: "De- scend,
Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend Into the sparry hollows of the world!
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd As from thy threshold; day by day hast been A little lower than the chilly sheen Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms Into the deadening ether that still charms Their marble being: now, as deep profound As those are high, descend! He ne'er is crown'd With immortality, who fears to follow Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow, The silent mysteries of earth, descend!"
He heard but the last words, nor could contend One moment in reflection: for he fled Into the fearful deep, to hide his head
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.
In sacred custom, that he well-nigh fear'd To search it inwards; whence far off appear'd, Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine, And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully,
The youth approach'd; oft turning his veil'd eye Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old: And, when more near against the marble cold He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread All courts and passages, where silence dead, Roused by his whispering footsteps, murmur'd faint: And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint Himself with every mystery, and awe;
Till, weary, he sat down before the maw Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim,
To wild uncertainty and shadows grim.
There, when new wonders ceased to float before, And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore The journey homeward to habitual self!
A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf,
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-biter. Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, Into the bosom of a hated thing.
What misery most drowningly doth sing In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught
"T was far too strange, and wonderful for sadness; The goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy; A dusky empire and its diadems; One faint eternal eventide of gems. Ay, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, With all its lines abrupt and angular: Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star, Through a vast antre; then the metal woof, Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof Curves hugely now, far in the deep abyss, It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss Fancy into belief: anon it leads Through winding passages, where sameness breeds Vexing conceptions of some sudden change; Whether to silver grots, or giant range Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb His bosom grew, when first he, far away, Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray
Old Darkness from his throne: 'twas like the sun Uprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it, He saw not fiercer wonders-past the wit Of any spirit to tell, but one of those
Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close,
The deadly feel of solitude: for, lo! He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild In pink and purple chequer, nor up-piled, The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west, Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air; But far from such companionship to wear An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away, Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, Tracing fantastic figures with his spear? "No!" exclaimed he, "Why should I tarry here t No! loudly echoed times innumerable. At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell His paces back into the temple's chief; Warming and glowing strong in the belief Of help from Dian: so that when again He caught her airy form, thus did he plain, Moving more near the while. "O Haunter chaste Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste, Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen, What smoothest air thy smoother forehead wooes? Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be, "Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste Thy loveliness in dismal elements;
But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee It feels Elysian, how rich to me,
An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name! Within my breast there lives a choking flame- O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs; A homeward fever parches up my tongue- O let me slake it at the running springs! Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings-
O let me once more hear the linnet's note! Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float- O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light! Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white? O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice! Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice? O think how this dry palate would rejoice! If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, O think how I should love a bed of flowers!- Young goddess! let me see my native bowers! Deliver me from this rapacious deep!"
Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap His destiny, alert he stood: but when Obstinate silence came heavily again, Feeling about for its old couch of space And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face, Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill. But 't was not long; for, sweeter than the rill To its old channel, or a swollen tide
To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns Up peeping through the slab: refreshment drowns Itself, and strives its own delights to hide- Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride In a long whispering birth enchanted grew Before his footsteps; as when heaved anew Old ocean rolls a lengthen'd wave to the shore, Down whose green back the shortlived foam, all hoar, Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence.
Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes One moment with his hands among the sweets: Onward he goes-he stops-his bosom beats As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm, This sleepy music, forced him walk tiptoe : For it came more softly than the east could blow Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles;
Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the lyre To seas Ionian and Tyrian.
O did he ever live, that lonely man, Who loved-and music slew not? "Tis the pest Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest; That things of delicate and tenderest worth Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth, By one consuming flame: it doth immerse And suffocate true blessings in a curse. Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,
Is miserable. "Twas even so with this Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear; First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, Vanish'd in elemental passion.
And down some swart abysm he had gone, Had not a heavenly guide benignant led To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head
Brushing, awaken'd: then the sounds again Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain Over a bower, where little space he stood; For as the sunset peeps into a wood,
So saw he panting light, and towards it went Through winding alleys; and lo, wonderment Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair.
After a thousand mazes overgone, At last, with sudden step, he came upon A chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high, Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy, And more of beautiful and strange beside: For on a silken couch of rosy pride, In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, Or ripe October's faded marigolds,
Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds- Not hiding up an Apollonian curve
Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light; But rather, giving them to the fill'd sight Officiously. Sideway his face reposed On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed, By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth To slumbery pout; just as the morning south Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head, Four lily stalks did their white honors wed To make a coronal; and round him grew All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, Together intertwined and tramell'd fresh : The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh, Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine, Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine; Convolvulus in streaked vases flush; The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush; And virgin's bower, trailing airily; With others of the sisterhood. Hard by, Stood serene Cupids watching silently. One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings, Muffling to death the pathos with his wings; And, ever and anon, uprose to look At the youth's slumber; while another took A willow bough, distilling odorous dew, And shook it on his hair; another flew In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes.
At these enchantments, and yet many more, The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er, Until impatient in embarrassment,
He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway, Smiling, thus whisper'd: "Though from upper day Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer! For 'tis the nicest touch of human honor, When some ethereal and high-favoring donor Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense; As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence Was I in nowise startled. So recline Upon these living flowers. Here is wine,
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